


my system's high when you fill up the space

by mimizans



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, First Meetings, Pre-Fall of Overwatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 14:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15583758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimizans/pseuds/mimizans
Summary: Angela puts her cup of lukewarm coffee in the microwave and props her chin on her hand as she watches it rotate, the ceramic illuminated by the dim, eerie light inside the chamber. Angela follows the cup’s path, around and around, and her eyes slide closed without her permission. She toys with the idea of forcing them back open, but she can rest just for a moment, she reasons. Just a moment for her brain to be quiet and sated.“Excuse me,” someone says close her behind her, and Angela startles herself out of her stupor with a shriek.Angela meets Moira in the mess hall past midnight and tries not to sleep with her immediately.





	my system's high when you fill up the space

The mess hall is deserted when Angela stumbles in, bleary eyed and in search of coffee. It won’t be good coffee, obviously, but she wasn’t planning on sipping it in a robe next to a bay window. She’s so close to finishing her draft and she doesn’t want to disrupt her thought pattern by sleeping and coming back to the paper in the morning. Angela will gladly suffer through mess hall coffee if it means a finished draft that can be sent off for editing. 

She picks a chipped ceramic mug up off the island in the middle of the room and pours herself a cup of coffee that she drains immediately. She grimaces at the taste and the temperature - bitter and lukewarm - before pouring another cup. Angela takes the time to put this cup in the microwave and props her chin on her hand as she watches it rotate, the ceramic illuminated by the dim, eerie light inside the chamber. Angela follows the cup’s path, around and around, and her eyes slide closed without her permission. She toys with the idea of forcing them back open, but she can rest just for a moment, she reasons. Just a moment for her brain to be quiet and sated. 

“Excuse me,” someone says close her behind her, and Angela startles herself out of her stupor with a shriek. 

“What the fuck!” Angela spits, placing a hand over her pounding heart. She whirls around, too righteously angry to remember that she doesn’t cut the most imposing figure in her leggings and faded sweater with a stretched out neck. 

There’s a woman standing behind her Angela, and she holds up her hands in mock surrender. “I apologize. It wasn’t my intention to scare you,” she says. Her contrite words don’t match the laughter lurking in her voice or the twinkle in her heterochromic eyes, and Angela can feel a flush rising on her face. 

“But it was a fun turn of events anyway?” Angela retorts, putting her hands on her hips. She has to look up at the woman, who must be over six feet tall. Angela beats back the slutty part of her mind that tells her that this quality is _very_ attractive. 

The woman laughs in reply. “My apologies again, Dr. Zeigler. You were standing in front of the coffee pot, and I have work to get back to.” A strand of short red hair falls into her face, and she quickly pushes it back into place with a sigh.

Angela looks the woman over, takes in her tailored slacks, her oxford shirt, her nondescript white lab coat with no insignia to be found. The way that she didn’t know that there was an identical and unimpeded coffee pot on the other side of the mess hall’s partitioned island. She’s new, Angela surmises. If Angela’s cataloging of the woman also noted the light smattering of freckles on the woman’s nose and the stylus charmingly tucked behind her ear like it was forgotten there, well, that’s no one’s business but hers.

Angela sighs and dropped her fisted hands to her sides. “It’s Angela,” she says, sticking her hand out for the woman to shake. “Only my grandmother calls me Dr. Zeigler.” 

That joke usually kills, and it draws a sharp bark of laughter from the woman. Her skin is cool when she shakes Angela’s hand. “Angela, then. A fitting name.”

Angela doesn’t purse her lips, but it’s a close thing. She knows exactly what the woman means, of course. Angela has soft features and a kind face. She has a halo of blonde hair that catches light just so. To top it all off, she’s a pacifist doctor in an organization that likes to think of itself as a peacekeeping force; Angela is a glowing symbol of dedication to healing the hurt. Angela shudders to think of the kind of fawning praise and cold derision that she would get if anyone saw the still-classified plans for the Valkyrie Swift Response Suit.

Normally, Angela would just smile and accept the tired compliment, but since this woman almost caused her to die of fright in a dimly lit mess hall, Angela thinks she’s entitled to hear her articulate herself. “How do you mean?” she asks blandly. 

“You’re just missing the wings,” the woman says, like she’s reading Angela’s mind. 

Angela shrugs. “They’re on my other sweater, I’m afraid,” she says, her voice as dry as she can make it. This draws another laugh from the woman; it’s a strange little bark again, like she’s being charmed by Angela against her will. 

The microwave beeps. Angela turns to retrieve her mug and steps out of the way so that the woman can finally reach the coffee pot. “You’ve been quite rude, you know,” Angela says, keeping her voice just the right side of accusatory. The woman glances sideways at Angela as she retrieves a mug and pours her coffee. “All this talk and you haven’t even given me your name.”

“I can’t seem to do anything right by you tonight, can I?” the woman says. She leans her hip against the island and considers Angela, absently stirring her coffee. Angela feels like the woman is searching for something in her face, though she couldn’t begin to guess at what. She must find what she’s looking for, because the woman flashes Angela a cat-like smile and says, “I’m Moira. O’Deorain.” 

Angela nearly spits. “The geneticist?”

Moira raises her glass to Angela in a toast. 

“Now I see why you didn’t tell me until I asked,” Angela says mildly, taking a sip of her coffee. She mirrors Moira, leans her hip against the island. 

“Yes, well,” Moira says, a flash of annoyance flitting across her sharp features, “people who are familiar with my work but lacking in imagination tend to write me off as soon as they hear my name.” She’s still stirring her coffee, though it has long since been blended. 

Angela decides not to reply to that. She loves to argue as much as the next opinionated person, but she doesn’t relish the thought of having a heated moral debate with an attractive co-worker she just met in the mess hall past midnight. There are only two ways that that particular exercise would end, and both would be frowned upon by HR. “What division are you working in?” she asks instead.

Moira shakes her head. “That’s classified,” she says, and then takes a drink of her coffee.

“So, Blackwatch?” Angela clarifies, quirking her eyebrows. 

The smile that Moira gives Angela over the rim of her mug is so unexpectedly bright that Angela reflexively smiles in return. “Very good,” Moira says, grinning. “I wasn’t sure how much you actually knew about this stalwart organization.” Moira waves one hand dismissively, presumably encompassing everything about Overwatch in the gesture, from its political infighting to its terrible coffee. 

“I do my best to stay informed,” Angela says, her smile fading slightly as she tries to decide whether she wants to take Moira’s statement as a jab or a compliment. “I won’t waste my time asking about what you’re working on then. I’m sure that’s -”

“Classified,” Moira says mildly, taking another sip from her mug. 

“Exactly.”

Moira shrugs. “I just got here. Not much interesting to tell you about yet.” Angela notices Moira’s fingers rapidly drumming against the side of her mug. A flash of motion catches Angela’s eye and she look down just in time to catch Moira scuffing the toe of her shoes against the linoleum. Moira is nervous, Angela realizes, at least a little. “That being said, I wouldn’t be opposed to having you visit the lab once I’m settled in” Moira says, her voice smooth as honey despite her tells. “I’m sure we could find something to discuss.” There’s no mistaking the twinkle in her mismatched eyes, the brown so deep it looks red and the blue brighter than a robin’s egg. 

Angela wants to say yes, of course, I’ll be down in ten in my best lingerie. She’s not going to lie to herself and say that she’s not attracted to Moira. Angela has always been partial to women who don’t treat her like porcelain, and she gets the impression that Moira would be more than happy to oblige that particular desire. Angela wants to take Moira’s cool hand and put it inside her faded sweater. Instead, Angela laughs. “Does that work on all the other girls?” she asks in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning into Moira’s space.

“Hit and miss,” Moira admits, her voice dropping low to match Angela’s. “Did it work on you?”

Angela cocks her head and meets Moira’s expectant gaze. “We’ll see,” she says, which makes Moira smile like Angela has already said yes. The way that smile sends a rush of blood to Angela’s face almost makes her reconsider her equivocating answer. 

But no. Sleeping with your brand new co-worker after knowing her for five minutes is a bad look, no matter how hot the co-worker is. Angela holds her ground. Silence hangs between them for a moment more, and Angela can almost feel Moira’s eyes tracing the line of her collar bone where it disappears inside her sweater.

“Nice to meet you, Moira,” Angela says as she steps backward.

“You as well, Angela,” Moira says. As Angela turns to walk away, Moira calls out. “Consider my offer, won’t you?”

Angela smiles but doesn’t turn back to show it to Moira. “I most definitely will,” she calls out.

When she gets back to her office, Angela dumps her terrible coffee down the bathroom sink. She doesn’t feel the least bit sleepy anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> my first moicy fic! i'm working on finding their voices, but you've got to start somewhere i suppose. 
> 
> i like the idea of moira getting nervous around pretty women and trying extra hard to be cool with them. being composed comes naturally to her 95% of the time but put her in a room with a hot girl and she has to reconstruct her whole persona. i ALSO love the idea of moira being just angela's type and angela having no chance of NOT sleeping with her. like, it's GONNA happen. like that b99 bit lmao: 
> 
> angela: "ugh, i can't believe i'm gonna sleep with her."  
> concerned friend: "well you don't have to"  
> angela: "no i'm gonna"
> 
> anyway, i hope to write more in this verse, particularly their first kiss (at a halloween party cause uhhh witch mercy) and first date (which happens by accident when angela invites herself over to hear moira play the violin)
> 
> i'm on tumblr at [popularflipwizard](http://popularflipwizard.tumblr.com) and twitter at [witchjail](http://www.twitter.com/witchjail). come say hi! feel free to prompt me as well :)


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